


Plus One

by Darkrivertempest



Series: Dramione Duet Stories [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Initially, Draco just wanted a date to his ex's wedding. He got what he needed instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plus One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyimee_lisa](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lyimee_lisa).



> Written for Lyimee_lisa at the 2013 Dramione_duet community on LJ.
> 
> A couple lines from _Runaway Bride_ are within, which are property of Paramount. Effusive gratitude to my super-quick beta, DelphiPsmith - you are a saint!
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

Draco Malfoy glanced over the invitation in his hand, his jaw unconsciously clenching as he read the missive.

In garish emerald ink on black parchment—who used black for wedding invitations these days?—the overly embellished note asked for his presence at the union of Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini on the fifteenth of March, 2009. Draco might have been able to stomach the nauseating thought of his ex-girlfriend marrying his ex-friend had the invitation been plain and simple. He might have even wished them well in their future together, though if Blaise followed in his mother’s footsteps, Pansy would be just the first in a string of many wives that met a strange and untimely end. It was the scrolling marquee across the top of the invitation, along with the almost lewd wizarding picture of the two at the bottom that had him wondering if the whole affair wasn’t in retaliation against himself for ending his relationship with the bride-to-be six months prior.

 _True Love!_ headlined the invitation, followed by hearts that bubbled up and popped throughout the solicitation, ending with a picture of the supposedly happy couple snogging against a background that looked straight out of some stupid Muggle fairy-tale. Every so often, one of the figures would look askance at the reader, smirk and then return to exploring the other’s tonsils. 

True love his arse. Draco didn’t buy it for a minute.

“I’m guessing by your expression that either Gringotts has vaporised another Malfoy-certified goblin or you received Pansy’s wedding invitation.”

Draco looked up to see his Auror partner leaning inside the entrance to their office. “Since Gringotts assured me nothing like that would happen again, I’m assuming you got one too.” 

Harry Potter waved a similar note, grimacing. “The art's a bit lacking. It's like watching a tongue-sized slug darting in and out of their mouths at the speed of a trapped Snitch.”

Draco closed his eyes and swallowed heavily to keep from getting sick. “Potter, your imagination is downright scary.” 

“Well, to be fair, I did have Voldemort living inside my head for a good portion of my life.”

“That explains quite a bit, actually.” Draco tossed the invitation, face down, onto his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really, _really_ don’t want to go to this fiasco.”

Potter sat in the chair across from him. “But why did they send the invitations so late? I mean, it’s next week. I've never planned a wedding, but I'm given to believe there's a lot of preparation involved.”

“You do realise you live in the wizarding world, don’t you, Potter? Pansy could have it all planned and ready to go within twenty-four hours with the help of Charms and such.” 

“Ah, right. Do you have to go?”

“Unfortunately. Every family has to be represented at unions and funerals. Pure-blood tradition and all that nonsense.” He sighed at the look Potter gave him. “What?”

“Do you have to make a toast or something?”

Draco snorted. “Well, I could propose a toast to the time the bride had her mouth full with my—”

“No!” Potter quickly interrupted. 

“—but I don’t think it would be prudent.”

“I should say not. So, you go, stay until the end and then leave. Beside the fact that she’s your ex and he’s your former friend, what’s the problem?”

“The invitation says ‘plus one’. Pansy knows I haven’t been dating anyone since we broke it off. These events are all about who you know and how far they can advance your career. Going alone is would be a social death sentence.”

Potter frowned. “Does it have to be a date? Can’t you take a friend?”

Draco batted his lashes at him. “Ooh, Potter! I thought you’d never ask!”

Potter sent a Stinging Hex his way. “Hardly!”

“I could take the Weaselette. She always riled the both of them.”

Potter stared, nonplussed. “Malfoy, that’s my _wife_ you're talking about. If anyone takes her, it’ll be me!”

“Spoilsport.” 

“There has to be someone you can take. What about Millicent?”

“With Peter Blishwick in Andalusia,” Draco said dismissively.

“What in Merlin's name are they doing there?” 

“Last I heard, searching for remnants of Atlantis,” Draco said with a shrug. “Doubtful they’ll ever find anything though.”

“Why?”

“Atlantis was around before Merlin, Potter. That’s ancient magic; if they don’t want to be found, they won’t be.”

“Priscilla Yaxley?” Potter suggested.

“No,” Draco said abruptly with a glare. “Yaxley was just as ruthless as…” He looked away. “Just no.”

Potter gave him a sympathetic look. “There’s always Daphne Greengrass.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “She’s Pansy’s maid of honour.”

“Oh, wow. Erm, her sister then?”

“No; reminds me too much of a harpy. Look, why are you only suggesting former Slytherins? There were three other houses, you realise.”

Potter laughed. “Would you even consider anyone from another house?”

Draco thought for a moment. “Maybe not a Hufflepuff. I need someone who isn’t afraid of their own shadow.”

“Cedric Diggory wasn’t afraid when he faced Voldemort, Malfoy,” Potter pointed out, all traces of amusement gone from his voice. 

Draco returned his partner’s cold look with a glare of his own. “And he paid the price with his life, didn’t he? More bravery than brains, I’d say.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed and Draco could feel the anger building in him. “Loyalty is a precious and rare trait, one I don’t think you’re familiar with.”

“Considering the company I kept during our school years, I’d say it was a completely foreign concept.” Draco rubbed his left forearm, frowning. “Loyalty to the Dark Lord was more often than not repaid with pain and death.” 

A lengthy silence stretched the tense atmosphere. The reopening of old wounds bothered Draco more than he cared to admit, particularly when he'd thought they were long healed, or at least thoroughly scabbed over. When he raised his head, he saw Potter studying him intently.

“I'm sorry,” Potter said. “I shouldn’t have said that. You know I trust you. We wouldn’t still be partners otherwise.”

Draco shrugged, relieved. “Forget it. Sometimes even I forget I'm perfect.” 

Potter cuffed him on the shoulder. “Prat.”

“Knob.” Draco returned to their original topic. “Any more suggestions on a date for the wedding?”

“As a matter of fact, I know someone who would be perfect,” Potter said with a smug look. She’s pretty, funny, wicked smart… and it would totally send Pansy and Blaise round the bend if you showed up at the wedding with her.” 

Draco arched his brow. “Just who is this paragon of perfection?”

Harry grinned.

* * *

In the decade that had passed since the end of the war, Draco had rarely given a thought to Hermione Granger, other than when he occasionally read something about her in the _Prophet_. The most recent had been six months ago, when the _Prophet_ had covered her latest speech regarding the illegal trafficking of Non-Tradeable Materials. 

The reasons for this were two-fold. The first was that thinking about her for any extended length of time produced uncomfortable emotions that warred between guilt and envy. The second—a deeper, more troubling notion—was that he could easily see himself coming to respect and like her. Very much. 

Such a possibility had never even been open to consideration when his father was alive; Lucius had retained the illusion that the idea of blood purity would eventually win over the populace, no matter that Voldemort had been vanquished. The only reason Draco and Pansy had stayed together as long as they had was because his father had approved of their pure-blood relationship, and done everything in his power to further it. Even when Lucius’ health had dwindled, he maintained that pure-bloods would one day regain their hold on the wizarding world and scour the impurities from society. With his dying breath, Lucius had insisted that it was only a matter of time, clutching Draco’s arm as he hissed the venomous words. Afterwards, for Draco at least, there had been relief in knowing that Lucius’ prejudice and hatred had followed him to the grave, and he’d told Pansy to look elsewhere. Some might have considered him quite cruel to treat his girlfriend of so many years so coldly, but Draco knew neither of them had been under any illusions—or Charms for that matter—that theirs was a love-match. 

Not that Draco had _never_ believed in blood purity; he very much had, growing up in an environment that perpetuated the idea and punished any views to the contrary. Or rather, he had accepted it as a given without thinking very much about it. But he had come to realise that the prejudice did far more harm than good, that it was more logical to exploit resources where and when one could, regardless of blood status. The revelation had been brought home to him sharply by a business venture eight years ago. A Muggle-born witch had capitalised on a need in the wizarding world for a Muggle product; a pure-blood tried to duplicate her success with disastrous results because he didn't care to understand how Muggles behaved or how their society functioned. Lucius had invested a tidy sum on the pure-blood's venture, ignoring Draco’s advice that he should finance the Muggle-born, and had thereby emptied their family vault of a considerable sum. Lucius, of course, blamed the Muggles and Muggle-born for his failure. Draco, more pragmatic about the whole ordeal, had had an epiphany of sorts in the vivid illustration of the dangers of preferring ideology to reality. 

He had wondered for the first time how much of his outlook on life was coloured by his father—the whole of it, if he were honest—and whether it might not be possible, even beneficial, for a man to form his own beliefs. Once he was on his own, without the heavy presence of Death Eaters and blood purists, his direction had changed dramatically. 

Draco was quite sure his father was turning in his grave at the progression his son’s life had taken. 

“Are you going to loiter in my doorway forever, Malfoy?”

Case in point. 

“And if I did?” Draco drawled, leaning against the door jamb. 

“Then I would say I’m not going to buy whatever you’re selling,” Hermione said, not even bothering to look up from her paperwork. “So you might as well leave, because the Ministry workers were top-notch when they built my office and the entrance doesn’t need you to hold up its frame with your body.”

“Nice to know you still have a way with words. Why, I’m practically giddy with sentiment from your honeyed tongue.”

Hermione raised her head, gave him a thorough perusal and snorted. “No,” she muttered and returned to her work. 

“No, what?”

“No, to whatever you’re going to ask me to do for you.”

He slipped inside her office, closed the door and sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk, ignoring her exclamation of protest. “Maybe I just want to talk with you.”

She huffed and tossed her quill aside. “And Manticores just want to cuddle. I may not have seen much of you in the last ten years, but I have a clear recollection of your basic nature. What do you want?”

“Aren’t you just inspiration for a Patronus in the making,” Draco drawled sarcastically, already regretting that he was there at all. How in Merlin's name had Potter had talked him into asking Granger to be his ‘plus one’? “Weaselbee doesn’t know how lucky he is that you left him at the altar.” 

Her gaze, which had been guarded from the start, now became positively frosty. “Making assumptions where you are lacking facts is dangerous, Malfoy. You know nothing about what happened.”

“McLaggen was a dunderhead, I give you that; even I would’ve left his arse before the ceremony,” Draco went on, ignoring her warning. “But what you did to Krum? Scandalous.”

Hermione had been leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, lips pursed, but suddenly the tip of her wand was centimetres away from his nose. “Let’s see if you’re such a nosey-parker without said appendage, hmm?” Hermione moved her wand in what was sure to be some intricate hex of her own invention that would result in the loss of his sense of smell.

Draco gripped her wrist, stilling her movements. “Potter said I could trust you,” he countered, hoping to entice her into listening to him before he lost any body parts. “Because I need someone who is clever, strong, intelligent and cunning.”

The chill in her eyes thawed a bit, though she didn’t lower her wand when Draco released her wrist. “I’m listening.”

Draco had learned the art of catering to people’s vanities to obtain what he wanted before he could walk. Granger had gone into the Ministry because she wanted to make a difference, he'd read that in an interview. That was the key. “I’m sure you’re frustrated with the recent increase in the poaching of Occamy eggs, yes?”

She arched a brow. “Their pure silver content is any Potion master’s dream ingredient, along with being a perfect conductor in fulminology. They’re also known as a Class B Non-Tradable Material because the Occamy is nearly extinct.” Relaxing her wand hand, she frowned. “What do you know about the _Argentum_ trade?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. How much should he tell her? In all honesty, he didn’t know any solid facts, only murmurings and hints in the less-than-savoury parts of pure-blood society. But if those rumours were true… “Look into Magnus Hildesheim.”

Her eyes narrowed a bit. “We’ve already contacted the Altes Museum, but have yet to receive a response. Their collection of silver is unusually large outside of imperial frontiers, so it’s raised suspicions. How do you know any of this?”

Draco didn’t, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “Just follow the trail that leads to Hildesheim,” he reiterated.

“If he's doing something illegal and you know about it, why haven’t you told your superiors?”

“Not my area.”

“Not your area?” she scoffed. “They would’ve at least passed it on to the departments where it was relevant!”

“Where it would have got lost in all the bureaucratic red tape and back-logged paperwork. I’m telling you now because I know you’ll do something more than just write an interdepartmental memo about it.”

“That’s not why you’re telling me, Malfoy,” she said with a short laugh. “You want something, and this information is your commodity.”

He shrugged. “Is the information worth my request?”

“How can I say until I know what you want in exchange?”

He sighed as if she were being unreasonable. “It’s easy, painless and not illegal. Is that sufficient?”

Her lips thinned. Clearly she hated being manoeuvred into a situation where she had to accede to another’s wishes. “Is there more you’re not telling me about the _Argentum_ trade?”

There wasn’t. “Possibly.”

“I should’ve offered you tea dosed with Veritaserum the moment you darkened my doorway,” she grumbled. 

“Yes, see how impolite you are?” he said with a grin. Were he in her position, he wouldn’t have hesitated to do such a thing. 

She rolled her eyes. “What is it you want, Malfoy? You must be desperate if Harry sent you to me.”

For some odd reason, the notion that she felt people only sought her out if they were having difficulties of some sort bothered him. He hoped his proposition didn’t sound as ludicrous as he thought. “I need a girlfriend.”

Her eyes widened and she stared at him. “You have ten seconds to explain or get out of my office.”

“Bit oversensitive, aren’t you?” He held up his hands at her glare. “All right, all right.” He handed her Pansy’s wedding invitation, noting with approval her look of disgust as she glanced over it. “I agree; it’s quite revolting.”

“I’d say shameless, given how long you and she were together, and add tacky given that she’s marrying your friend.”

“Former friend.”

“Ah.” She tossed the invitation on her desk. “And this is why you need a girlfriend?”

“I have to go, as I’m head of the Malfoy family now. The ‘plus-one’ attached to the invitation is a slight against me because she knows I haven’t dated since our break-up. Attending the wedding without a partner would be equivalent to social suicide.”

“Hire an escort,” Hermione said flatly.

Draco shook his head. “Worse than showing up alone.”

She tilted her head and studied him. Too closely. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the perfect response to their insult to me,” he said bluntly, stopping the argument he could tell was poised on her lips. “You’re everything they despise, because you nullify every ideal about blood purity and you represent the failure of everything their side fought for. Even you have to admit, seeing Parkinson and Zabini eating a healthy dose of crow would feel brilliant.” He dared to wink at her.

The blush that stole up her neck and into her cheeks was enchanting. “Not to mention they can't stand me personally, so having me on your arm for the wedding would annoy them to no end, right?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on her desk. “You know it would.” He kept to himself the additional annoyance she would be for Pansy, who knew Draco had been fascinated with Granger during their school years and had resented it thoroughly, regardless if that preoccupation with the Gryffindor was more malice than mooning at the time. 

Hermione tapped her thumb on her bottom lip, clearly lost in thought. “We’d have to make it look convincing,” she said after a few moments. 

His heart stuttered. Was she actually going to do it? He had thought she would take more convincing—in fact, he'd been prepared to show at least five other reasons why it would be a good idea to pretend to be his girlfriend for the wedding. 

Not realising his silence was due to shock, she hedged, “Unless you’ve changed your—”

“No!” he nearly shouted. “I mean, yes. I mean no, I haven’t changed my mind.”

She gave him a dubious look. “We have a week to prepare, so I think we'd better go out on a date as practice.”

“What?” His brain was still not connecting with the notion that she had actually agreed to help him fake a relationship. 

“Honestly,” she huffed in annoyance. She grabbed a piece of parchment, scribbled something on it and handed it to him. “Meet me here tomorrow evening at half six. Bring flowers. And do your research; anyone that knows me knows I wouldn’t be involved with someone who's a complete idiot.”

Draco's sense of self-preservation reasserted itself, reminding him that it wouldn't do to let on how much she'd rattled him. “Then how do you explain Weasley and McLaggen?” he said with a touch of his old malice.

Her gaze shifted away to focus on anything that wasn’t Draco. “Momentary lapses in judgement.” 

“I could understand that in the case of McLaggen,” he went on, “but Weasley? That must have been a whole new level of self-delusion.”

She pinned him with a heated glare. “And why aren’t you married, Draco Malfoy?”

“What? And spoil my great sex life?” 

“You have no sex life to speak of.”

“Not yet,” he teased with a smirk. If they were actually going to do this, she needed to get used to him. “But I promise to meet you at half six. With flowers.”

She seemed appeased by his assurances. “Dress warmly.” 

“Why?”

“Do you trust me?”

Trust. Again—a foreign concept. Did he trust her? Did he trust anyone, really? Potter trusted her, trusted her so much that he often touted that if it hadn’t been for Hermione Granger, he would’ve died long before their end of first year. And, Draco trusted Potter to keep his arse out of trouble every day in their job, ergo, he should trust Hermione. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say yes.” 

She seemed only partly appeased by his assurances. “I'm still not sure this is a good idea...”

He could see the thoughts tumbling in her brain, thinking it was a bad idea, this whole scenario. Hell, he did too. Yet she had agreed. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t damn curious as to her motives, since he'd told her his. The longer she mulled things over, however, the worse for his situation; she might change her mind and call the whole thing off. Better to be bold and give her something to think about other than how they were going to manage to pull this off.

He stood up and leaned over the desk, his eyes capturing hers as he reached out a hand and cupped her jaw. He could feel her breath ghost over his skin and it sent him into sensory overload. Closing the distance, Draco pressed his lips to hers, nearly moaning when he realised how warm and soft they were. He didn’t expect her to reciprocate, of course, and so he was thoroughly blindsided when she opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his. 

A searing bolt of current arced up his spine and spread out to each of his nerve endings. It took all of his willpower not to climb over the desk and snog her senseless right then and there. Draco’s hand trailed along her cheek to her neck, sliding into her messy hair to grip and shift her for a deeper kiss. Gooseflesh prickled his arms when their tongues curled together, lips nipping for more than just a brief taste. Not until it was clear they needed to breathe did Draco retreat, though not very far.

“Was that convincing enough?” he panted, pressing his forehead to hers, wanting desperately to kiss her again.

She smiled hesitantly. “I’d say it makes a good opening statement. Further evidence might be needed.”

He laughed and pressed another quick kiss to her lips before pulling away. He straightened his Auror robes and brushed a hand through his tousled hair. It was probably a good thing he didn’t know what he looked like at that moment—he might not leave. 

No, better to go before anything more happened; he didn't want to risk spoiling a surprisingly promising beginning. He bowed at the waist and murmured, “Tomorrow night, then.”

* * *

That evening he met Hermione in front of the tube station at King's Cross St. Pancras, flowers in hand—a small clutch of deep violet-blue bluebells, interspersed with spikes of pale yellow blossoms of agrimony. He’d researched until his eyes were red and itchy, wanting to find the perfect bouquet, then he’d cast a charm to ease the irritation and continued on. By the time his mother had checked on him at quarter to three in the morning, giving him a surreptitious smile, he’d narrowed his choices down to these two. If this was a test to see if he was serious about their endeavour, he hoped he'd pass. 

At first, he didn’t recognise her; she blended in with all the other Muggles milling about. But then, someone in a black wool duffle coat turned and he caught her gaze… and promptly lost his breath. 

Draco had known since fourth year that Hermione was striking, if not conventionally beautiful. What her two dunderheaded friends had failed to notice throughout their Hogwarts years, he appreciated fully: Hermione Granger going through puberty. He’d observed the lush curves filling out her school uniform under the shapeless robes many a time in Potions class. Her short stature gradually gave way to a mature height where she towered over Potter. The shape of her mouth arced and softened, though her tongue was still as sharp as ever. Sometimes, after a long day of studying her, he would take out his frustrations on Pansy with rough shags and closed eyes, imagining Hermione in his arms. Pansy never questioned him during these times; she didn’t have to, she knew who he fantasized about. 

The witch standing before him now was so much more than what he'd ever dared to think about. 

Hermione pushed back the hood from her head and smiled. “You’re on time.”

He arched a brow. “Usually the trouble with being punctual is that nobody’s there to appreciate it.” 

She laughed lightly. “Do you often have dates that stand you up?”

“Wouldn’t know, I haven’t been on one in six months,” he said with a scowl. Her perfume drifted on the slight breeze and it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and keep her there for the foreseeable future. Instead he thrust the flowers at her. “Hopefully these meet with your approval.”

She gave him a searching look before accepting them, fingering the blossoms gently. “Bluebells for humility and constancy, agrimony for gratitude.” 

“You wouldn’t believe how tedious it was trying to coax a field of bluebells to bloom a month before they’re supposed to.”

“You charmed a whole field into blossom?”

“Two, if you want to be technical. After the fourth cutting withered, I sent an owl off to Longbottom to see if—”

“Wait, you spoke with Neville?” she interrupted, astonished. 

Draco gave her a confused look. “Yes? Well, we spoke via owl, not actually face-to-face.”

“But you spoke with Neville.”

“Are you going deaf or are you just slow?”

Instead of getting irritated with him, Hermione surprised him by laughing. She shook her head. “Wonders will never cease.” She cast a Preservation Charm on the flowers and placed them in her purse. “Thank you, they’re lovely.”

Draco shifted on his feet, unsettled. What just happened? Why was she asking about Longbottom? Surely she knew her fellow Gryffindor had taken over for Professor Sprout when she retired; it had made perfect sense to consult him on how to persuade the flowers to bloom before their time. 

He was about to ask her if there was an issue when she held out her hand to him. “Come on, we’ll be late if we miss the train.”

His eyes widened as unease crawled up his spine. They weren’t actually going into the London Underground, were they? Where they couldn’t perform any magic? “I don’t think this is a good—”

“Don’t worry; I won’t let the Muggles eat you if it breaks down between stations,” she assured with mock concern. 

She was well-versed at living amongst Muggles while he lacked any real experience beyond that of his Auror training and rare trips on the continent. She knew he was at a disadvantage in this environment, and yet, she was asking him to trust her. “Why?” he bit out, trying to stifle his anxiety. 

“I thought we’d have more fun this way. You need to relax around Muggles, Malfoy.”

“Call me Draco,” he muttered as he scanned the entrance of the station. “And why do I need to relax? Potter is the liaison in the Muggle world if we need to venture out of our jurisdiction.”

Warm fingers tangled with his unexpectedly. “Because I’m Muggle-born, Draco,” she said delicately. “If I’m to be your girlfriend, you have to adapt.”

She didn’t give him a chance to respond as she pulled him into the station and towards a set of moving steps. When they stepped onto the metal floor and started to descend slowly, Draco gripped the handrail for dear life. These were a bit like the moving staircases at Hogwarts, but the fact that they were made by Muggles just seemed to make it worse. They stepped off at the bottom and came to a turnstile. Hermione pulled a blue card out of her purse that had the word ‘Oyster’ on it, swiped it over a sensor, and the turnstile rotated to let her pass. He was about to ask how he was supposed to get through the barrier without this ‘blue oyster’ when he saw that the bars were still rotating, and he slipped through. She looked over her shoulder and put her finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet with a smirk. 

He had an overwhelming urge to kiss her, right then and there, but the momentum of the crowed pushed them to a platform where other Muggles were milling about. 

“I’ve never been on a Muggle train, Granger,” he whispered, nearly giving in to sheer panic.

“The Hogwarts Express is a modified Muggle train,” she teased. “And call me Hermione. No one will ever believe we’re together if you continue to call me Granger.”

“I don’t think these contraptions run solely on magic, _Hermione_ ,” he snapped, his nervousness increasing when a disembodied voice echoed above them, telling the public to ‘mind the gap’. 

Any response she might have made was swallowed in a rush of air that smelled of diesel and earth, and a loud horn sounded as a red and silver train slowed to a halt in front of them. Doors slid open along the sides and people filed out onto the platform. Draco was curious despite his apprehension and readily followed Hermione onto the train. She led him to a double seat in the corner of the carriage and indicated that he should take the window seat. 

He didn’t ask why; he was too busy watching all the Muggles scurry to and fro until the doors slid shut again. He felt a slight jerk and then the train was moving, speeding through a dark tunnel, on to wherever Hermione was taking them. He thought about asking her their destination, but a part of him wanted to be surprised. She had arranged this, after all.

Signs on the tube walls, visible through the windows on both sides, told him when they stopped in Euston, then Warren Street, then Oxford Circus, where they changed trains to another line. According to the information on the platform sign, they boarded the southbound Bakerloo line, and were soon speeding past Piccadilly Circus, Charing Cross, Embankment, and finally Waterloo. The whole journey took roughly thirty minutes, but Draco hardly noticed the time, preoccupied as he was with the hand holding his the entire way. 

They exited and made their way to the main station entrance. He tried to tell himself that he wasn’t upset when she released his hand, but his chest tightened when she wove her arm in his as they began walking. The moment they went out through the doors into the twilight, Draco had an idea of where Hermione was taking them. Fairy lights adorned trees along the path to the Jubilee Gardens, adding to the spectacular beauty of the site situated on the South Bank of the Thames. 

“It’s called the London Eye,” she said softly, pointing at an enormous structure lit against the evening horizon. “It opened about a year after the end of the war.”

It truly was a marvel of Muggle engineering. Draco watched as the giant Ferris wheel turned, slowly enough that passengers could disembark without the wheel having to stop. The illumination along the rim gave it an ethereal beauty and he felt lighter than he had in years.

“It’s not the tallest Ferris wheel in the world, but it is the tallest one in Europe,” Hermione offered as they approached the ticket office. “The Star of Nanchang in China is one hundred sixty metres tall but each gondola holds only eight people, whereas the London Eye’s passenger capsules can hold up to twenty-five people.” She tugged Draco past the queued-up Muggles. “Come on, we’ve got Fast Track tickets.”

He assumed that meant they could board the Eye before anyone else, and he was right. Soon they were stepping from the platform into a glass-covered capsule, the rotation so measured he could barely tell they were moving. When no one else joined them before the doors closed, despite the long line of people waiting, he gave her a curious look.

She shrugged, let go of his hand and walked towards the series of concave windows at the end to gaze out at the horizon. “What better way to enjoy the scintillating views of London’s skyline than in our own private capsule?” she murmured, her tone cynical.

Her sceptical observations bothered him. Wasn’t he supposed to be the jaded one? Granted, a tremendous amount of tragedy had influenced both their lives before they had even left school, but wasn’t she purported to be the stalwart of their little trio, the idealist? If she was so pessimistic, why was she going through all of this just to pretend to be his girlfriend? With questions crowding his brain, he went to stand next to her, sharing the view.

“You know, you’re being very accommodating with all that I’m putting you through this evening,” she said wryly. “I half expected you to balk several times before now about how ‘Malfoys don’t ride Muggle contraptions’ or some such rot.”

He grinned. “I did object to the tube, if you remember. But you didn’t pay me any heed and bullied me into following you. Actually, you dragged me. There wasn’t a trace of coercion in your tactics.”

“Well, my enticement skills are admittedly rusty.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Draco said aloud, without thought.

“Wouldn’t you?” she breathed.

Realising what he’d just said, he had to turn and look at her, he had to. She was in profile, staring out at the landscape of the city, but even in the dim glow of the capsule's tiny lights her cheeks were tinted with red, though it wasn’t overly warm. That combined with the last rays of sun barely peeking over the Houses of Parliament made him think that she looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of some mythical tale of sirens leading men to their deaths. 

“In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you back down from anything, not even the Dark Lord,” he said, needing to turn his gaze elsewhere to stop himself doing something utterly foolish. Now was not the time. “You even refused to bend to my aunt’s will, and you can rest assured, Voldemort was the lesser of the two evils.”

Hermione turned to stare sharply at him. “She did things to you, didn’t she? Made you—”

“Yes,” he bit out. Discussing Aunt Bella was not conducive to the atmosphere he wanted to foster here. “That subject is closed, non-negotiable.”

He could feel her stiffen in response. “Does Pansy know what she did to you?”

“No.” No one knew, except perhaps his mother, and she probably only guessed the general outlines. Certainly he had never told her. “I prefer to keep it that way.”

He watched Hermione’s reflection in the glass, taking in the frown, the pinched expression. Finally, she closed her eyes and blew out a sigh. “Do you know why I didn’t marry Ron? Or Cormac or Victor, for that matter?”

There had been many speculations, especially from Rita Skeeter who seemed to consider Hermione Granger her personal fodder. But all the conjectures had been shallow, running the gamut from secret shame at her Muggle heritage to emotional damage from the war. There was also the rumour she was afraid of commitment. The one he thought was just cruel was the one where it was purported that Hermione suffered from an inability to have children due to a stray hex. Potter had been particularly creative in his retribution towards Skeeter in that instance. The one that was laughable in the extreme was the opinion that Hermione was an aspiring black widow, wanting to off professional Quidditch players for their sizable wealth, but was stopped just in time. Draco knew it was all a load of bollocks; Hermione was more interested in the size of someone’s brain than their bank account. 

“Have you ever wondered which is worse: saying something and wishing you hadn’t, or saying nothing and wishing you had?” she asked quietly. “Just as I was walking down the aisle, I realised I was walking towards someone that didn’t have a clue who I really was. Even though Ron knew me better than anyone else, he still didn’t understand what motivated me, what I was passionate about. It was like he showed up, but he didn’t know why. It wasn’t all his fault. I’d done everything I could think of—except dumbing down my intelligence—to convince him that I was exactly what he wanted. If I’d said yes to him, or to any of them, I would’ve been lying to them… and to myself.”

That sounded like the Hermione he knew. “So how did you let things get that far in the first place?”

A strange discomfort overtook her features and she seemed to shrink in on herself, showing a vulnerability he'd never seen in her. “As much as I like to believe that I don’t need anyone, I’m still human. I was lonely. Is it a crime to want to feel someone’s arms around me when I’m tired? For someone to tell me they love me, even though they don’t know why?”

Each word she spoke was like a blade slicing his skin, a fresh ache in his chest. Did she truly value herself so little? “What you’re describing can be easily bought with Amortentia,” he said bluntly. 

She laughed. “I know. I was even convinced I’d accidentally doused Cormac with it when I found him one day, snogging his mirror image.”

“You’re joking.”

“I swear on my wand, he didn’t know I was there. I had to make some commotion about the house before he became completely… erm, engaged.” 

Draco shuddered. “Tell me he stopped when he heard you.”

“Yes, but after that, I kept catching him glancing in that same mirror with this forlorn expression, like he'd lost his best friend.”

Draco couldn’t help it; he snorted, then chuckled, and finally laughed so hard tears fringed his lashes. When he looked over at Hermione, she was in much the same condition. Their laughter increased, easing the earlier tension, until they collapsed on the bench in the middle of the capsule, leaning on each other and trying to catch their breath. By now the wheel was on the downward slope of their journey and the platform was coming into view.

A sense of anticipation gripped Draco, and before she could protest, he laced his fingers with hers just as the doors opened to let them exit. “Dinner?” he asked, hopefully.

They stepped onto the platform. “I’m thinking Italian,” she agreed with a hesitant smile that made his heart leap.

* * *

The next week was a study in masochism, at least from Draco’s perspective. They’d had a lovely dinner in a restaurant along the Thames, and he’d even kissed her goodnight before—reluctantly—letting her disappear inside her house. He was prepared to speak to her the next day, but it was as if the universe was conspiring to keep them separated for the foreseeable future. He and Potter were caught up in a gruelling case that lasted three days and left them filthy, a bit mangled and wishing for the comfort of a loved one. Potter had his wife. Draco thought about owling Hermione once he was cleaned up but found that she was in Germany, following up on the information he'd given her about the Occamy eggs. He hoped she would be back in time for Pansy’s wedding. It would be just like fickle Fate, he thought, if he was forced to go to the wedding by himself.

* * *

The day of the wedding dawned overly bright and exceptionally warm for March in London, and Draco had yet to hear from Hermione. He’d sent an owl to Potter the evening before, but he’d told him Hermione was incommunicado during her investigation—owls would’ve been redirected and anything else possibly incinerated. 

Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. 

As he lay in his bed and stared up at the sunlight creeping across the ceiling, Draco took stock of the situation. He didn’t know if it was concern over her involvement in a case fraught with criminal elements that was causing him to feel paranoid, or if it was the idea of showing up to Pansy and Blaise’s wedding _alone_. Probably a combination. He’d never had the slightest inclination to worry about someone other than his family. Ever. It was a novel idea, really. Did it always induce this fluttering pain in the region of the chest? If so, no wonder he hadn’t indulged in the practice before now, and he wasn’t quite sure how or why he was doing so now either. 

He glanced at the time and leapt out of bed with a curse, realizing he was thirty minutes late. Pansy would have a never-ending source of material with which to goad him if he was late… and that brought him up short. Why did that matter? Why was he still obsessing over Pansy six months after _he_ broke it off with _her_? She wasn’t important in any way to him, why was he worried about her opinion of him?

Enough. If he was going to be late, so be it; he wasn’t going to bend over backwards and kiss her arse just because she expected it. The Malfoy name meant something different to Draco, something more than what Lucius had reduced their family to being during and after the war. With his father gone, Draco could envision a better life for him and his mother, beginning their own traditions that had nothing to do with any sort of blood purity. Making an appearance at the wedding without someone on his arm might cause a stir, but society’s norms weren’t going to change until someone stood for something better, something stronger.

Today, Draco would show everyone just what he was capable of.

Even if he stood alone.

* * *

The wedding and subsequent reception were being held on the Parkinson estate. As Draco arrived at the entrance to the grounds, he scanned the crowds filing past the wrought-iron gates. He was adorned in a midnight blue satin morning suit combined with striped trousers—half-etiquette. An Albero yellow double-breasted waistcoat, tailored to fit his slim frame, a blue silk jacquard cravat and a cashmere handkerchief finished the look. He angled his head and tugged at the fabric around his neck, trying to breathe, but it was no use; the lump in his throat was unbearable.

And then it slowly disappeared as the vision approaching him came into focus. 

Hermione gave him an infectious smile as she came towards him, draped in a sleeveless sundress of buttery yellow with black scrollwork edging the calf-length full skirt. Her hair was confined in a loose chignon, tendrils floating about her face. On her feet were fashionable black pumps—not too high or too low. A black clutch and dainty gold earrings rounded out the ensemble. 

She paused uncertainly before him and held her arms to the side. “Well? Will this do?”

“I…” He didn’t have a functioning cell in his brain at the moment. She’d stolen all of them.

She frowned and looked down at the dress. “It’s a Jason Wu I picked up in Rennes on the way back to London.”

“Who?”

“No, Wu.”

“Woo no hoo?” Draco asked, completely confused. 

She laughed and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I was in Germany, but I finished the case around four this morning. I stopped in Rennes, France to select a dress for the wedding. The designer is Jason Wu.” 

“Oh.” Draco floundered. Since he'd heard nothing for days, he hadn’t been expecting her, thinking she was too busy with work. But even when he'd pictured this moment, he hadn’t anticipated that she would overflow his brain with the sheer brilliance of her presence. “I mean, great!” He cleared his throat. “You look positively…” And his mouth stopped working at that point because she closed the distance between them and hugged him.

“I’m sorry if I worried you. I couldn’t risk any correspondence during the artefacts seizure at the Altes Museum,” she whispered against his neck. She turned just a fraction, her nose brushing his skin. “You helped me stop a major portion of the _Argentum_ trade. I can’t thank you enough.”

Pure-blood traditions and Pansy bloody Parkinson be damned, Draco wanted to leave and take Hermione with him so he could tell her all the ways she could thank him. He pressed his cheek to hers, slowly caressing, his eyes closed to savour the feeling. “I don’t want to be your friend,” he murmured. 

“I see.” She stiffened in his embrace and tried to withdraw. 

Draco refused to let her go. “I don’t want to be your friend because I’d rather go back to having no relationship with you than having some damn fake one.” He gave her a pointed look. 

She inhaled sharply. “What are you saying, Draco?”

He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I’m saying that I know what causes and issues earn your choice, your loyalty. I’m saying that I leave the toilet seat up in the loo and I still have a house-elf. I’m saying that I know why you feel lonely, and some scraps of affection are just that: scraps. I’m saying that I don’t want to change you, or have you become something you think I need; I like and admire the you that you are now.” He smiled at the blush that highlighted the freckles across her nose. “I hate weddings—boring parties full of nattering fools who boast how virile the next generation will be.” Almost in a dream, he heard himself add, “So I won’t ask you to marry me—not because I don’t love you, but because I’d rather have you ask me, when you’re sure I’m the one you won’t leave at the altar when the time comes.”

They both froze, eyes wide at the words he’d said aloud. No filter. Well, too late to take them back now. 

She blinked several times then relaxed. “That works. But you’ll get rid of the house-elf.”

He raised an eyebrow. “He’s blind. I couldn't turn him out to fend for himself.”

“You’re shameless, you know that?”

“Of course I do, I’m a Malfoy.” He pulled her close and pressed his forehead against hers. “A different sort of Malfoy.”

She nuzzled his cheek, giggling. “Before you take vows of sainthood, we can still crash Pansy’s wedding, right?”

“Well, we _were_ invited. It would only be proper,” he said, giving her a wink.

“I anticipant a most memorable headline from Skeeter in tomorrow’s _Prophet_.”

Knowing he would ensure that it came to pass, Draco smirked and said, “I have no doubt.”


End file.
